


The Royal Vault: Untold Treasures Behind Fereldan Locks

by IncreasingLight



Series: In Their Blood [11]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-24 15:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8378233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncreasingLight/pseuds/IncreasingLight
Summary: This is the extra fic - you know the one.  Where all the smut, amusing anecdotes, extra quests that weren’t shown because they didn‘t impact the plot, and goofy in-jokes are hidden away, locked up tight.  Almost as if the entire country of Ferelden was ashamed of them or something.  Surely not.I’m giving you the key.  Shhh.  Don’t tell anyone.The only rule: bring an easily satisfied sense of humor, a love of the trite and predictable, and maybe buy that backpack from Bodhain after all.  You might need the extra space, if you see something you like.  Or just feel the need to hoard a dozen Warmth Balms.  You never know, after all.  And perhaps consider listening to the music, if some is suggested.  There might be a reason it’s recommended.  I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the full experience, if you‘re going to waste your time hanging out in this vault.All kidding aside - some of these are definitely NSFW.  Fair warning!  Individual chapters will be marked.





	1. Eternal Flame - NSFW

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song by the Bangles. Yes, I know. Elissa picked it, damn it. I’m not responsible for my characters’ taste in music. Her POV - NSFW

I know I make a lot of fuss and bother over the romances in the stories being unrealistic, but I never realized how unrealistic they really were until I was plunged into one of my own. Sort of. Its hard to maintain any sort of mystique or sense of allure when your love story unfolds over a series of camps during a Blight while you and your potential love interest are perpetually covered in gore.

I never even suspected that I was a romantic. Even now I panic at the thought, however true. How could I be romantic? I was no willowy maiden better suited for a high tower and sweet prince riding to her rescue. I spent far too much time in the early days denying that in this, as well, I took after my father.

Our kissing had gotten better, whatever Zevran’s and Leliana’s opinions of the matter were. We both heard a lot about it, as you can imagine. I liked it, in any case, and I was half of the people that mattered. I’m pretty sure Alistair did, too, given the dramatic bulge in his pants at the crucial - er - junction? He tried to hide it, and I fought to give him that choice. It was his body, but what was the point in being embarrassed about something he couldn’t control?

I didn’t want control. I wanted to be free. Free to love him, if we both wanted the same thing.

This was hard enough for both of us. Admitting we didn’t have forever, like the stories promised, but that we wanted what we could and did have now, for as long as possible. It involved Alistair defying his Chantry upbringing and admitting what he really wanted (he was doing bloody brilliant at that so far today - he‘d made real progress), and me sending two fingers straight up at my father and mother’s many lectures on ‘acceptable behavior’ (yet again - I had plenty of practice at that), and wishing I had listened better to Orianna’s more colorful stories of her time back home in Antiva. She had stressed discretion over the details, but I could have gleaned something, if I had bothered to read between the lines.

Discretion would be impossible. I laughed helplessly against his lips at the thought, before drowning in them again, to the sound of my pulse beating in my ears. Everyone would know.

Everyone would see. There was no hiding what he meant to me.

I was woefully under-prepared for this. But perhaps, so was Alistair.

Alistair. My heart thrummed his name, a steady drum in my veins, like the ones Mother claimed her Storm Giant father used in becalmed seas to time the oarsmen. My pulse was a constant tide, washing repeatedly over and under my skin and making me shiver.

We certainly didn‘t lack desire. With every heartbeat I felt like I was about to explode. His words, I admit, not mine, muttered as we fumbled with laces and clothing, teasing forgotten in favor of struggling to get closer. But it’s exactly how I felt, every second I spent near him.

He was better with words than I, by far. Even now I can hear Morrigan’s dismissive snort. Words aren’t really our strength, I admit. It was easier for me to echo him than try to express the way I longed for him in every way. I am no poet.

It was one of the reasons I rationed my time with him so carefully in the early days. I couldn’t afford to worry more about him than our other companions. I was supposed to be in charge. I understood too well, too late, the rules about fraternization in armies. But I had already lost control. This was just the final step.

I would already die to save him. Or worse, if an option presented itself. And it was too late to consider anything else. That instinct had become part of my nature - and only Wynne had noticed, and called me out on it.

Up until now, our hands had occasionally ventured underneath clothing, but never were they allowed to pull it off. The one time he had come close, I had scared him with a heated gasp, and he retreated entirely, with stammered apologies.

I hadn’t been sure at the time how to ask him to keep going. This time seemed different - I gasped into his mouth, but he pressed on, my heart thundering in my ears louder than it ever had in any battle.

It was ridiculous to be so frightened. It should be simple. We should relax, let it happen, enjoy the moment. I could hear Orianna’s voice, humming with her friends as they laughed about their husbands, the ribald and the affectionate and the exasperated embroidered into an elaborate pattern of manners. She always knew how to tread the line of society‘s acceptance. I suspected they taught that in Antivan finishing schools.

Maker’s Breath, why hadn’t I paid better attention? All those insipid tea parties and sewing parties could have been bloody good for something. But I knew why I hadn’t.

I never expected to be here. My parents wanted me to choose for myself, and I didn’t want to choose at all, so for years we’d had the same battle. I knew the steps of that battle, I could have fought it forever, if I hadn’t met…

Alistair.

I broke away from his kisses and touches, not because I wanted to, but to pant out, “Perhaps… perhaps we need walls?” His laces were loose, as were mine. My braid was falling down, and my lips were tingling. My undershirt was wet with the water I had been using to rinse my face and hands when he found me, with my breastband visible through the damp cotton.

Not exactly the most beguiling of temptresses, I know.

Alistair glanced around us, as if expecting an inn to spring up out of the earth like a half dozen genlocks. “I don’t see how…”

“A tent,” I muttered, flushing even deeper. “I don’t want Shale or anyone to interrupt… we can’t help them listening, but they don’t have to _watch_ …” Leliana’s eyes had been noted far more often than she realized. I thought she was merely keeping a close eye on me, because of my youth and inexperience. I was used to being watched, you understand. The teryn’s daughter was rarely allowed out without an escort. Tedious arses, the lot of them, Gilmore being the worst. That arse didn’t even think I could make it to the kitchens without a guard.

Alistair swallowed, but nodded fervently. “I’m nervous enough already without having to perform. I mean, for anyone but you, anyway.”

As always, he made me laugh, “I… think it’s not so much about performing as… just being there?” I laced my fingers in his. “We’re not putting on a show for anyone after all.”

He smiled, and his eyes crinkled up in the way I loved. He seemed so much more lighthearted then. More like my Cheesy than any prince. “It’ll be a little more complicated than that, I’d wager.”

I pulled him backwards from our spot by the river, not really wanting to look away when he was smiling and at ease. I purposefully didn’t meet any of our companion’s eyes, though out of my peripheral vision they all seemed to be remarkably busy looking elsewhere.

That was kind of them. I would be all right, but more than anything I wanted Alistair to enjoy this, to understand that the Chantry could be wrong about… things. Orianna and Mother had both assured me of that much, immediately after I got the Chantry approved version of how babies were made. Alistair had never had anyone give him that gift.

I trusted him. If he trusted me, we might both fumble to get there, but we’d get there. We had all night to make the journey, and perhaps longer - if it went well, anyway.

If the Maker had ever had a modicum of mercy, it would go well.

I pulled him into the tent, and he fell to his knees, his head still grazing the canvas. So tall. His eyes fastened on mine, questioning what to do next. “I’m going to get undressed,” I warned him, pinking slightly, but deciding that it might be easier for both of us to act as I would if I didn’t have a… guest.

No, a lover. If I couldn’t call him what he was, what I wanted him to be, I shouldn’t be here. I was not a child, though I still felt like one most of the time. I was a Grey Warden. Old enough to save my country, take a lover, and brave enough to face the consequences of both.

He nodded, shifting his legs inside, and starting on his boots. Following my lead, as always.

I wished I could have shown Ser Perfect Bloody Gilmore that yes, a man was willing to follow my lead after all.

I stripped quickly, too practical to tantalize – perhaps someday I would be comfortable with that, but not now - and folded my clothes precisely in the corner. Neatness was a military habit, and according to my mother, one of my few virtues.

My mother would probably be dancing for joy that I had gotten this far with an eligible young man. I wondered idly if she would have cared about his parentage on either side… and then dismissed the thought. My mother was dead. It was my decision to make. Even Fergus couldn’t make this choice for me - though I bet if he was still alive he would try.

All the stories claimed Mother hadn’t waited for the Chantry to bless her and father. I’m pretty sure Father would have denied it to his dying day, but he was always more devout than…

Enough about my parents. My parents weren’t here. Just me, Elissa. And the man who wanted to be my lover.

Someone wanted to be my lover. Shit. My hands shook as they removed the rest of my clothing.

Left in my breastband and smallclothes – so boring and plain, but I wasn’t Leliana to be able to wear lace and ribbons. You needed beauty to pull those off, not the sort of muscles you develop from wearing plate armor and wielding longswords in both hands. I turned to face him, only to find him with his mouth hanging open and a blank expression on his face. I flushed, and stared down, and tried to be angry, “Look, I know I’m not… feminine, but…”

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasped out, and picked up my fisted hand, and raised it to his lips. “Milady…”

“Stop,” I whispered. He was doing it _again_. To treat me as something delicate was a lie. I was short and stocky and above all, strong enough to wield two swords as extensions of myself while wearing full plate. “Don’t mock me, Alistair. If you cannot call me by my name, we have no business attempting this, Cheesy…”

“Elissa,” he hissed, and covered my mouth, first with his fingers for a long second, but chasing his hand with his own lips. We knelt there, knee to knee for several long minutes, his hand cupped under my hair, and his lips exploring mine, soft and wet and warm. Gradually, I relaxed. He probably didn’t mean to mock me after all.  Cheesy was never cruel. His hands stroked my back, and mine explored his thighs, finding his waist, and then I climbed into his lap…

It’s possible I launched myself at his lap, thinking back. It wasn’t subtle. He may have made a sound like ‘oof.’ I weigh a lot, but he could take it. I weighed less than the dragon that Flemeth had turned into. She had landed on him at least once. His armor hadn’t even dented.

Of course, he hadn't been wearing armor... But he didn’t seem to mind it at the time. I didn’t think to check for bruises in the morning.

I never claimed to possess grace, or diplomacy, or any of the ‘gentle’ arts my mother insisted would find me a husband. She loved me, I know, but… those things came easier to Fergus. Who, listening to Orianna, hadn’t waited for his wedding night, either. Oren had arrived remarkably early, upon reflection…

Why had none of these things occurred to me before tonight?

But here, in Alistair’s lap, as his right hand shook under what was left of my braid, and his left burned on the back of my upper thigh, and he looked at me with those honest, earnest eyes as if I was precious in every single bloody way, those things didn’t seem to matter.

We panted at each other for a moment before I reached up and kissed him again, pressing myself down.

He groaned, long and loud and… may have lost control entirely.

I did _not_ laugh. Give me a little credit, please. I kept kissing him, ignoring what had just happened. It didn’t matter. We had no guarantee of any tomorrows. I wasn’t going to waste it - I hate wasting time - and I suspected that my actions would comfort him more than any words I could try to conjure. Words are not my gift.

After a moment, he started to respond again, overcoming his self-consciousness. My heart lightened, and I advanced.

Strategy is my true gift. Even Father thought so, though he claimed that I needed to learn when to retreat. Judging by Alistair’s enthusiasm, tonight was not the night for retreats. A lesson for another day, then. “Maker, you’re perfect,” he groaned in my neck.

I arched to give him better access, but then pulled back, to grasp his hands, focusing on his eyes, as I pulled them around and placed them on my breasts.

Every woman I know has larger breasts than I. Too many years behind armor, bound tight to keep them from bouncing, I suppose. Mother certainly didn’t have that problem - but archers probably don‘t have to bind as tightly, either. It doesn’t bother me – any larger and they would ache, or provide a larger target on the battlefield. An arrow through the tit would hurt like the fucking Void, and practical women’s plate that has breast support hammered into it is as rare as a varghest in Crestwood and often of dubious workmanship. Alistair’s hands more than engulfed my breasts, still bound as they were. I used my thumbs to loosen my binding and let it shift down to my waist.

To my surprise, he didn’t even look down. I huffed a little laugh, and arched an eyebrow at him. “Not even curious?”

He blinked, and then glanced down, and mock recoiled in surprise. “When did that happen? Are you sure you aren‘t a rogue, with that level of dexterity?”

I shoved him with my inner thigh. “Very cute. Nice try, Cheesy.”

His ears – the only outward sign of his heritage that I had been able to tell, a very slight peak that was barely noticeable unless you were looking – were bright red. “Yes, well, I… didn’t want you to think you were nothing but an object. Respect, and all that.” His eyes were already back on mine and his hands drifting back to my waist. “For some reason, you’re here, with _me_ , of all the men in Thedas, and I… I don’t want you to regret - I want this to be… everything you‘ve ever wanted. Assuming you want what… I want?”

Only Alistair would be sitting with me mostly naked on his lap and still asking if we wanted the same thing.

I traced his hair back to the tip of his ear and he actually moaned, like he couldn’t help it. I wasn’t sure how to tell him that I didn’t want all those other hypothetical men. As if they actually existed. I wanted him, and only him, my sweet Cheesy, my brave Alistair, the Prince to my Dragon that Leliana and he insisted on calling me.

So I picked up his hands again and moved them back to my breasts, a silent request for him to touch me. His thumbs barely brushed my nipples, and they puckered in the cold air as I shivered.

“Are you cold?” His voice was so reverent, like touching me was a present in itself.

I shook my head, still wordless. I still didn’t know how to ask for more.

So I swung my leg off him, and lay down, instead, pulling his hands down to my hips, and hooked his fingers in my smallclothes. Actions were easier. They were always easier.

“Maker’s Breath,” he whispered. “Are you… are you sure? Elissa, I want…” his chest heaved in an attempt to finish his sentence. “I want all of you.”

“Yes.” That word I could manage. The most honest word I had ever used with him. No teasing, no foolishness, no bravado. “Yes, Alistair.”

He closed his eyes and pulled, dropping them at my feet. He opened his eyes and I saw a hunger. A fire deep inside, burning, but banked in an attempt to not scare me. I reached up to his neck, and he reached out, to cup my ribs and trace small circles in ticklish patterns. When I squirmed, he smiled, but desisted, too kind to take advantage, his eyes dropping just to raise them back to my face.

He was gentler, this man who called himself a bastard, than any so-called nobleman I had ever met.

He thought he didn’t deserve me. I knew I didn’t deserve him. I raised my own shaking hand to his cheek, and stroked it. He closed his eyes, and my heart broke that he had had so little love in his life. He was worthy of all the love in the world. I could tell him so a million times, and probably would, once I found my words again, but until then… I drew him down against me and kissed him, arching up into his body, strong and scarred and everything I never knew I wanted until he offered himself with a single soft kiss.

He pulled back, breathing heavy, and pulled off his own smallclothes – but I didn’t look. Not then.

They were only clothes. He was the important thing. I could look… next time.

Maker, please let there be a next time. Because if we couldn’t look at each other in the morning, fighting the Blight was going to be bloody awkward.

With no warning, I found myself caught tight in his arms - Holy Maker, those arms were amazing when up close, and I had been a silent admirer of them for months already – my mouth devoured with an intensity I wasn’t expecting from our embraces up until this point. Apparently Alistair had a tripwire, and I flung myself across it, hoping to be consumed by whatever flames it triggered.

We were both rubbish at traps. I suppose I haven’t mentioned that.

I laughed and flung my head back as he kissed down my neck and to the valley between my breasts. His hand – so hesitant just a few moments before, cupped and held my breast and then he looked up at me in awe and lowered his mouth to it, with another barely hidden moan.

He kissed my nipple, and it was warm, and wet, and my undoing. I clutched his hair and arched against it. He muffled a curse and something about his hair, and I laughed again, a little desperately, but loosened up just a little.

As reward he came back up and kissed me again, and then, slowly, deliberately pressed himself against the inside of my leg, as if he was afraid I would retreat, after all, when presented with all of him.

As answer, I raised my leg, and wrapped it around his waist. I focused briefly, and moving slowly, so that he could stop me, if that’s what he wanted, I centered him against me, marveling at how smooth he was.

He did stop me, then. “Will this hurt you?”

“Not as much as if you stop,” I whispered, praying he would understand. To be rejected now, here, at the crux… that was a injury that I would never recover from. If he didn’t want me after all…

He breathed out, almost a sob, and bent to kiss me again, and I felt him slide in, slowly, awkwardly, stretching me around him.

I have since been informed by a much more experienced woman (namely, Wynne) that there were other things he could have done to make it easier. But to be completely blunt; I didn’t care.

The whole truth is that I lost it then, that his slow movements, meant to ease his entry and spare me pain, instead pushed me over the edge after barely being touched. But I’m not ashamed at all. It was beautiful.

It was like being remade, under his hands and around his body. Nerves I never knew existed flared up and drove me along what felt like the path to madness. My words, his name, came to me all at once, and I snapped up against him, crying out desperately, begging him to keep going. What little pinch there was disappeared in sudden bliss, breakers like below Highever’s cliffs crashing closed around him.

Damn, that’s almost poetic. Leliana would be impressed.

I have not made it a practice in my professional life, the act of surrendering. I don’t retreat. I don’t surrender. But this was precisely that. I was at his mercy, and for once, I believe he understood. For the second time that night (but not the last) Alistair lost control of himself, again because of me. In surrendering to each other, we both won.

Together, we were unstoppable. Together, we could do anything.

Our initial encounter might have been over quickly, but it didn’t seem to be a problem. I didn’t realize until later that that type of stamina was unusual in men, and then only after discussing the night thoroughly with Leliana and Wynne (much to Alistair's embarrassment). Instead, I took it as a compliment – and he seemed to take it the same way. It was a good thing, our inexperience, because we took the joy we were offered and ran with it, like children in a meadow with the wind at our backs, exploring and testing and pushing each other to higher and higher heights.

Leliana’s flowery prose is contagious.

It was innocence, perhaps, but that childlike joy made the darker days that came later all the brighter for our memories. When we were parted for long months, even years, I know I remembered how happy I made him, my Warden, my Prince, later my King, and always, always, my Cheesy, and trusted he would remember the same.

There was trust between us. We’ve held onto that, always. Together, we’re happy, and apart we’re – not broken, but lesser. That was the way of it, and how it remains to this day. We are stronger together. Better together. Like a circled fort with stone walls, with just the two of us inside, protected from whatever anyone could throw at us. A Prince and a Dragon, fighting back to back.

No jokes. Trust me - we weren’t doing it wrong.

As I looked up at him after we finally had to stop, exhausted and exhilarated, flushing with the need to sleep and the results of our excitement, his earnest eyes still on me, marveling at _me_ , I realized for once and for all – I wanted to be with him, whether that meant in a palace in Denerim, or a tent in the wilds of Ferelden, exiled to the Free Marches, at Weisshaupt in the Anderfels, or in the Deep Roads, answering our Callings together.

And that was a major problem.

Andraste‘s Pyre, I didn’t want to be Queen of Ferelden. No one could be less suited than I to such a role, I was certain. There had to be another way to spend the rest of our lives together...

But… it seemed that my mother was right about a few things after all. I understood a little better why she would have left her fleet and notoriety behind to follow my father to his Teryn, to take his title and be by his side. I shivered with the realization that I would follow my Cheesy anywhere he had to go. He gathered me up, and kissed my bare shoulder, as if he, too, never wanted to part.

But Mother was wrong about two crucial things – the first was that it was possible for her stubborn daughter to change her mind when provided with a better argument. Her second error was that I needed ’gentle arts’ to find a man. I had just been confronted with the truth; the things that would find me a lover were the art of war and one very dead dragon.

No one was more shocked than I.

He loved me for who I was, not what I could bring him.

And the feeling was mutual.

 


	2. Slow Learner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I strongly recommend listening to Emerald Rose's 'Never underestimate a woman with the goddess in her eyes' song before reading this chapter, as it inspired this one off.
> 
> Maker forgive me. This chapter is not for everyone - if you object to December/May relationships, or casual sex between friends, or to an uneven balance of power during sex... (Sweet Maker, what have I done?) But despite all that, it's hardly explicit. It's largely meant to be funny, as Zevran really didn't know what he was getting into.
> 
> Zevran's POV - which I have not done before. I'm not entirely happy with it - but short of writing yet another fic to sink deeper into his psyche I think I'd better just post it.
> 
> NSFW, if that isn't already obvious.

I had heard, while appreciating the freely flowing mead in the tavern, that our Shale was unwilling to risk banging her head on the low ceilings of the chambers above, and that meant… that meant my goddess would be alone in her room. It was the chance of a lifetime. If she allowed me in, I would do my best to serve her as such a woman deserved. My breath grew short as I knocked.

Wynne opened the door, “Shale, I thought you weren’t coming upstairs…” she stopped short, and pulled her robe - gapping open most attractively and revealing a pair of breasts that were more glorious than anything I had ever seen in my great experience - shut immediately. I sighed with disappointment. “Zevran. What are you doing here?”

“You tell me, my lady Wynne,” I reached out a hand and ran it under her chin boldly. Her eyes sparked - I chose to believe with interest, not with anger, and as she didn’t bat my hand away, I persisted. “I will do anything you desire.”

The woman herself coughed, “Zevran, it’s very late, and we’ve both had quite a lot to drink. You should go to bed.”

“Very well,” I smiled most wickedly. “Mine or yours?”

Her disbelieving snort tickled my fancy. “You don’t know what you’re doing. Go sleep it off.”

“On the contrary, I am more sober than you think,” I leaned up against her doorframe, kicking my heel out across my leg. “I am here because I dream of you, my lovely. Your hair falling down from your sensible hairstyle, your bluest of eyes dazed with passion, your mouth, swollen from my kisses… your healing hands running over my body…”

“Right,” Wynne’s knuckles had gone white from clutching at her collar. “Zevran, I don’t have those sort of feelings for you…”

“Oh, you don’t have to!” I beamed at her with great enthusiasm. “I meant what I said earlier, my lady. I am here to offer you a massage, to help you relax and,” I took a great risk, leaning in towards her ear, “help us both sleep.”

I saw her hesitate, and her eyes waver. “Does Sten know where you are?”

“Nobody knows, Cara Mia,” I breathed. “Sten retired ages ago. I have not been to our room. Why would he think I am here? And your roommate does not require sleep. We should seize this chance, and make the most of the time we are given.”

Her eyes narrowed in calculation. “Just a massage, then. My back does ache…” I was allowed within, and she revealed her body in a smooth series of movements, revealing creamy white skin that begged me to leave my mark behind me. The wise woman had shoved the two dwarven beds together to make a more than adequate space for her to lie down, and she did so, stripped to her breastband - nicely overflowing - and smallclothes - sadly practical.

I pulled a vial of oil - scented like lemons and all the rage in Antiva last season - out of my belt, and climbed up with her. “I’m afraid I must loosen your band,” I began - not without an ulterior motive, I admit. “Otherwise, it will get greasy, and who knows who can be hired to do laundry down here?”

She sighed, resigned, and reached behind her, stiffly. “Fine. I know what you’re thinking, Zevran. You think I will pour into your hands like putty.”

I stilled her hand with my own, and trailed my fingers down her spine, and then back up to loosen her ties with a single sensual pull. I’m pleased to report that she shivered. I leaned over her back, and breathed into her ear, “Would that be such a horrible thing?”

“I repeat, you don’t know what you would be letting yourself in for,” she sounded amused now. “You shouldn’t underestimate me, Zevran.”

I pulled my shirt off over my head, revealing my elegant physique and improving my range of motion. “I’m not doing anything of the sort, loveliest of Wynnes.” I oiled up my hands, briskly, “Now, prepare to be blown away, my lady, by the best masseuse the Crows have ever seen.”

This is an excellent time to admit that I gravely miscalculated the effect she would have on me.

The noises she made while I had my hands on her were more intoxicating than any mead they served downstairs. She moaned and gasped beneath me, until I was the one shaking, restraining myself with great difficulty.

When she warmed under my hands to the point of exquisite discomfort, my skin raised goosebumps. “What… what are you doing?” My hoarse voice asked, as if of its own accord.

“Warming the oil. It’s cold in here,” she sounded blissfully relaxed. “Pray, continue. This… this is just as good as you promised. You have wonderful hands, Zevran.”

I took a deep breath and then, a risk, straddling her lower back. “I can do better,” I vowed. “Will you allow me?”

“All right,” she sounded amused again, and wriggled underneath me most delightfully. I narrowed my eyes, wondering if she… was she… on purpose?

I should never have underestimated Wynne’s devious nature.

But instead of confronting her I rededicated myself to her pleasure, until her entire body was mine to command. Of course, by the time I dared lower myself to taste the faint tartness of the oil on her shoulders, curved over her like an elven bow, I was as hard as Shale’s rock collection. But much larger, I assure you. My stones are legendary and flawless - like polished ivory.

She didn’t stiffen beneath me at the first kiss, so I licked, more bravely, up to the edge of her ear. I felt her breath catch. “Tell me to stop, if that’s what you desire,” I whispered into the pearly shell.

Quite the opposite, she braced herself and somehow managed to flip me over onto my back. I sat, stunned as she crawled over me like a predator. A white cat, perhaps, and I, her mouse. I let my eyes drift down to her curvy globes as she suspended herself over me. “Is this what you want?” she challenged me.

“Have I not made myself perfectly clear?” I rose and took one of her breasts into my mouth and felt her shake over me. “Allow me to worship you, my goddess.”

She shoved me back down, but she was panting. “Fine.” She tore through my laces, and had me out of my extremely form fitting leggings before I could say, ’At last’. It had taken months, and a vat of dwarven ale to reach this position. I didn't regret a thing.

I wasn’t wearing smallclothes - what was the point, when I was hoping for just this outcome? I bounced free of confinement, my member just as eager as the rest of me.

I could not suppress the sultry smile I flashed her. “Give yourself to me, my goddess,” I purred.

In retrospect, that might have been a mistake. In a moment, she had me pinned to the bed - I know not how, though it must have been magic - and had taken me in her mouth. In a matter of moments, I was crying out to Andraste herself, as she stroked me, with not only her mouth but heat and pressure as well. She popped off me, almost roughly, and I’m afraid to admit I whimpered.

The minx just sat over me, looking at me with a very smug smile, and whispered, “I did warn you.” She breathed on me then, and the frost creeped up until I was shivering with the chill. “Tell me if you want me to stop, Zevran.”

“You have me at your mercy,” were my only words, and I closed my eyes, and surrendered myself into her very capable hands. “I will be very, very good. Teach me not to underestimate you, my Enchantress.”

Her chuckle warmed me again, and then she settled herself over me. I sank into her as if she was the ocean, and I, a mere pebble tossed in her wake. I couldn’t even hold on - as much as I wished to touch her again, to hold her against my body and claim her for my own, my hands were too occupied with twisting themselves into the bed sheets at my side, in an attempt not to embarrass myself.

I see no point in being modest. I have had many lovers, over the years. I grew up in an Antivan whorehouse - not exactly a place for maintaining one’s virtue, yes? I have years of practice, spent more nights with companions than alone, and none of my many lovers have ever complained. In my experience, the older women are always the most experienced, the most skilled. They know their strengths, and play to them.

Wynne was like every woman I had ever been with - whether maiden, matron, or crone.

She not only knew her strengths, but played my body like some holy instrument of pleasure. I rose into crescendos of bliss, only for her to drop me, limp and panting, just before I could find release. She played her song for hours - I am unsure exactly how long, quite honestly, as after the first escalation, I could merely beg her to continue as long as I had mind to form words, whimper until I lost my voice, and gasp wordlessly ever after.

I have never been ridden as she rode me. I never will again. Wynne was as wild as the wind on the docks of Rialto Bay, as playful as the gulls that dip in the gales that blow from the sea, and as demanding as any Crow master I have ever served.

By the time she had finally permitted me a release, I was a sticky, sweaty, wrung out shadow of myself. I knew, deep in the back of my mind, that I had wept with sheer pleasure, that I had worshipped her on my knees, both literal and figurative, as she purred dirty phrases mixed with compliments and praise into my ears, nipping them in the most delightful way.

And then, she, as sweet as she ever appeared to our companions, wrapped me in blankets, rubbed my back, and crooned her approval into those same ears. I could only curl into her and sleep as I hadn‘t done since failing to fulfill my contract on our fearless Elissa. A sleep without dreams, and without wrapping a hand around my dagger for the first time since I was given one at the tender age of thirteen, after proving that I could kill someone with my bare hands.

My hand was curled around something far more pleasant instead - the majestic circle of my idol's breast.

When I woke, very late the next morning, it was to Wynne, already dressed and sipping tea.

Her first words to me were, “Have you learned your lesson?”

Sometimes it is fun to be a slow learner. "I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me.
> 
> The next chapter that will be added to this is also based on an Emerald Rose song. It will be from Shale's POV, and will be SFW, but objectionable in other ways.


End file.
